Illuminate My Heart
by Francis Sinclair
Summary: 'There is a wraith among us.' Oneshot. Tom Marvolo Riddle, what time had brought to him, and what he had became. Mild description of violence.


Special thanks to Twilightstargazer for her wonderful beta work, this wouldn't have came out without her.

This is also, as you can see, my first time publishing anything on FF. Any kind of review would be greatly appreciated.

I encourage you all to also read Chase Glasslace's The Fire Omens, because this work is partially inspired by her masterpiece, I would be overjoyed if I could write Tom Riddle's character and experience half as good as she does.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

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**Illuminate My Heart**

**-S-**

The woods whisper among themselves._ There is a wraith among us._

Sure, the trees have seen many things. From the most ancient of times, seeds were spread, tree limbs have stretched overhead, and flowers have blossomed, their petals bloomed and fell underground, turning into dust once again. Yet, _he_ is unseen, unacknowledged, and most importantly, _unwanted._

_He does not belong here_, they murmur. _He does not belong to this realm_.

And so the whispers went on and on, echoed between the high sky and the endless land beneath, resounding in the air, and hid among the quietly swaying twigs in the daylight, like tiny sparks of dust drowned out in the bright afternoon sun.

But he cares not.

He dwelled, he lingered, he wondered, and he strayed. But he stayed. And sometimes, he dreamed.

**-S-**

Tom looked down on the cold tile floor with his emotionless grey eyes.

This had been many years ago, he remembers vaguely; a memory, long gone and forgotten in the rush of history, replaying itself in front of his eyes. A shadow, a lingering taste; the faintest smell of death and decay that swiveled in the halls of Riddle Manor; a sixteen year old boy basking in his unsung glory; the subtle twist of cruelty upon his lips. No one remembered, and no one cared. He has been wiped away and forgotten, just like he planned; time and again, he had rewritten himself, and he watches passively as the boy saw through him, saw beyond him, saw into a time long left behind.

He watches as the boy turns, and stalks towards the towering statue in the back of the eerie hall. '_Speak to me, o Great Slytherin!_' The boy hisses, each syllable slithering past his lips, savored like the texture of well-preserved wine. He watches the prideful tilt of the boy's head, the unyielding determination of a young dictator hidden beneath the elegant stance, his arms spread wide, as if to embrace something far greater than him; the sacred judge of life and death held loosely between the boy's pale, slender fingers.

A few months after that, Tom tore a piece of himself out, and slept for three days in his dorm room after that. His dreams were erratic, screams still ringing in his ears, dark locks sticking to his forehead in cold sweat. When he finally crawled out of bed, his breath catches as he caught sight of the leather-bound diary on his nightstand, elation spread in his chest like wild rabbit, feverish and frenzied and overwhelming, and he kneeled to the floor clutching at his head, a laugh breaking out of his throat like a note cut short.

-**S**-

Tom went into the forest to speak with Nagini not long after that.

"_Massster_," The snake queen flicked her tongue out, tasting the air, the movement swift and sensitive. "_You sssmell dead-alive_."

"_I cannot die, Nagini_," he said, and felt his lips twist into an insane imitation of a smile with ecstasy, raw and ferocious in its shape, naked and _real_, without his oily pretense glazing over.

"_Masster is not all here_," hissed Nagini once more, licking his open palm fondly. "_Masster isss half-alive_."

"_It would not matter, Nagini_," he said, "_And it's Voldemort now. I'm Voldemort_."

"_As you wish, Massster._" said Nagini.

-**S-**

The next time he did it, he used the heirloom.

Diaries are for sentimental teenagers, he thought vindictively as his plan completed itself in his head at lighting speed, driven by rage and well-preserved hate; an heirloom would be better suited for the future leader, better suited to honor his ancient ancestors, to bring glory to them all again, after so many years of disgrace; it will be better suited to mark the next stage of his plans, to remove himself further from his father's stain.

He blasted the front door into a thousand smithereens, and sneered to see Tom Riddle Senior scrambling up from his perch beside the fireplace, searching for a weapon frantically. '_I'm your son_,' said he. '_Go back to the filthy swamp where you belonged_,' said his father. He watched his father fall to the ground, and executed his punishment, reserved especially for the man he had waited for in his short childhood before he gave up and grew old.

He finished off his grandparents and started his work apathetically. As his world was split in two, shaking and struggling to break free of the other half, _he_ watches from afar, unmoving and uncaring. In the center of the circle smeared with blood, chalk and awry symbols, the naked, pale body twists, flips, and strains to let out silent screams. An ashen face contorts and morphs in the candlelight, a perfect distortion away from his father's visage, a step closer to the truth, to what he sees in himself; and the flexing claws of that _creature _grasped into thin air; he knows not what he captured there, only what he gave in exchange.

Afterwards, when he had stood up, dressed, and cleaned away evidence of his deeds (_spawn from the hate that had infested the back of his mind like ugly mould spreading for all his life_), he listened not to the hollow roaring in his chest, he felt not the _craving craving craving a thirst going on forever wanting_ that had started to consume him, the absence of what he had cast away, a past he deemed unworthy of Lord Voldemort. He twirled the Ring between his fingers rejoicing in his success, and thought absently that the object had felt a little colder than that of the Diary.

-**S**-

The golden Locket gleamed in the flickering torch light as Tom warmed his waxy fingers near the burning heat; his sacrifices lay by his feet, some of them shivering, while the others stopped completely some time ago.

Hepzibah Smith's murder had driven him out of the country; no one knew it was him, but he could not help but to leave traces of himself in the working process - a style, per say - a subtle signature, a proud claim to this best of crimes, the most honorable sort of revenge, visible only to those of the most meticulous observation. _Someone like Dumbledore._ And he could not afford that discrepancy; he would not allow a wrong note in his marvelous symphony.

He tried different methods shredding himself. What kind of deed brings the most precise split? What kind of Death grants a soul the cleanest, smoothest cut? How far should he go to achieve his perfection? And he cared not for the traces of fatigue under his eyes and upon his cheeks in his insistent pursuit. He watched the pale, naked body of a stranger flip and twist on the cold floor in front of him, its face ashen, its screams silent, and thought about some years ago another such body bathing in similar agony - _his own body _- to reach a far more glorious end; far more glorious than Death, such an abrupt and ugly disruption to life, his wonderful life.

He ended the spell with a flick of his wand, and ended the stranger's life with another flick.

Afterwards he quenched the torches, and waited in the dark until the Locket came to life, an eerie reflection of himself smiling back at him on the golden surface. He slammed the lid shut, and walked out of the room, leaving the air full of a foul smell and the sounds of pathetic pleadings behind.

-**S**-

He lay beside the high windows of the borrowed castle, and stared at the moonlight that poured through the pale glass, simmering in different colors on the ground. Behind him was the statue of God, and his Cup was on the altar.

The Holy Grail, Hufflepuff's Cup, the Cup of Life, the Cup that held unimaginable powers privy only to those most worthy is now a trophy of his, just like many others, it was another asset gathered under his name. People would praise him; through this, he had put himself level with those men of legends that had once held the golden handles of this Cup, in which now a piece of himself resides. He smiled mockingly at this; he does not need the power of the Cup, he is already immortal. He only needs recognition, acknowledgement of his superiority from the Giants before him and the peasants of his own time alike.

This is the perfect irony, the ultimate mockery: the one least in need of the Cup has gained its custody, and has polished it anew from the lengthy obscurity it had suffered for centuries till now. A satisfied leer crept on his face as he lay side by side with his silent glory, God and the many Deities peering down on them, neither making a sound.

An earthly chill seeped into his bones as his backed remained unmoving on the ground, clammy and cool, the rush and fever from his murder not long ago already lost on him. The bright moonlight that had previously engulfed him has withdrawn beyond his touch now; he reached out towards it, and felt his fingertips prickle with another wave of numbness.

He is so very close to Greatness now; he felt it beating in his chest, alive and eager, in place of that hollow yawning he had learned to accept so long ago.

-**S**-

Heaps of black-clad silhouettes filled the room, none of them daring so much as to breathe too loud. The man with blurred features and blood-shot red eyes sat on the throne at the head of the room, staring at a splendid Diadem displayed in front of him under his wand light thoughtfully.

He had let his followers seen its beauty, just this one time – of course they would never have any idea of its true value, beyond that once it had belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw.

The Diadem glinted in the cold light, majestic and apathetic just like himself. It had been oddly easy this time - he felt nothing when he killed, and a piece of himself had come off so easily, it was almost like a joke. He hardly felt it taken away from him, and he had the strange urge to laugh when he was finished. He was disappointed. So boring. So uneventful. When his great work had neared its end, it was so painfully _easy._

He briefly toyed with the idea of putting the Diadem upon himself, and then quickly discarded it. No, he was Lord Voldemort, nobody could tamper with his plans, advise him, change his mind, not even the great Rowena Ravenclaw, one of the Great Founders. _After all_, he thought as he sneered chillingly down on the groveling idiots at his feet, _I'm no descendent of Ravenclaw's_. The great magician should feel honored, that her work of art, her crown of supreme intellect would be appreciated by the Lord Voldemort himself.

"Avery, Nott," He murmured in his low voice, carefully controlling the gleeful laugh that wanted to escape his throat, "I presume you'll be waiting in Hogsmeade when I return?"

Nothing could stop him now. He tried to remember the first time he shattered his soul, the teenager, how he nearly killed himself, his heart stopping or he had thought so, and found he couldn't remember it quite so clearly, and couldn't bring himself to care. Tom Riddle had become a distant memory, carefully sealed and put away in a worn out, old, leather-bound notebook that had once carried the boy's deepest secrets. He'd gone a long way since that day. _One step closer_, he thinks, _just one step further – and I will - _

-**S**-

He snapped back to reality.

The wind is howling between the tree limbs, shaking them wildly, maniacally, tearing down leaves and insects and old cobwebs with it, and leaving only naked emptiness in its wake.

He wanted to laugh at the dream of power and glory he just had, but he had no mouth. Instead he stared at the out-stretched twigs that looked like tiny little hands above him, under the wide night sky, all shaking and reaching upwards silently, desperately, as if praying to grasp at something far greater than them.

-**S**-

There were people who came in the woods last night. Workers, they were, cutting down trees for Christmas in the huddled Muggle cities. He tried to possess one of them, but found the contents of their minds unbearable, boring, filthy, utterly _unimportant_.

He couldn't even wield magic with a body like that.

So, as he gave up, and the small crowd of lumberjacks drifted away, he curled into himself as much as he can, and dreamed of many Christmas nights ago a black-haired little boy stopping outside a shop window lit up in the dark night, gazing at a single, unsold Christmas tree. The air was chilling with ice flakes clashing around him just like it did many years ago, and his consciousness flickered in the blowing wind just like a nearly burned out candle would.

-**S**-

He walked past the crowd of cheering and shouting children dressed in colorful costumes, and marched towards his destination in determined steps, vaguely aware of the faint echoes of anthems coming from the church in the distance. He thought about this perfect step in his plans and the reasons why he chose this day. It's the perfect irony, isn't it? To send these people to the _other side _when apparently their families from the _other side_ are coming back home? And he had always appreciated a well placed irony against the silly notions of humanity. He smiled cruelly as the wind tore at his cloak more fiercely, the silhouette of the house already manifesting at the end of the blissfully quiet street.

The iron fences swung open silently as he strode in, bypassing most wards and bringing the rest down in the blink of an eye. He blasted the front door into a thousand smithereens, and was satisfied to see James Potter scrambling up from his perch beside the fireplace, searching for his wand frantically. He raised his yew wand – "_Lily! It's HIM-_" aimed it at the dark-haired man "_Take Harry and_ _GO_ -" he spoke the incantation just like a thousand times before, just like the first time he spoke it "_Go! Run! I'll hold him off!_" he slashed down with his wand, and James Potter's lifeless body crumpled to the floor in an undignified manner, his short, uninteresting life ending abruptly.

He moved up the stairs confidently, feeling a sense of anticipation, excitement and rightness rise up in him with every step he took, like a story plot slowly reaching climax where Lord Voldemort would walk away victorious. The wooden door to the nursery slid open, fiery red hair flashed wildly like fresh sparks of bonfire in his line of vision, a pale face followed, and then he saw the determination in her eyes. He was suddenly irritated. Flashes of a life so many years ago rushed into his head, an orphanage, a little boy, a dead mother because she was too weak to stay alive for her child.

He demanded her to stand aside, and she refused, and so he killed her, and then he aimed his wand on the oblivious infant, then, all his years of effort, all he gave away in his limbo of agony, all his glory and power was blown away in an incredible display of absurdity and utmost mockery.

He might have laughed if he could, but the onslaught of _nothingness_ steered him away.

-**S**-

The wait was long and tedious. At first his consciousness kept going on and off, suspending him in the small gap between the living and the dead, and he struggled to stay there, stay _here_, anything to keep going, like a drowned man drinking in his every last breath. Then it all slowly came back to him: green light, fiery red hair, Godric's Hollow, an infant, a little boy pushing his bully in front of a truck, the golden eyes of a basilisk, his father collapsing in front of the fireplace, a locket, his Cup on the altar in front of God, a diadem, a promise to rise to the height of absolute power, and, his failure.

Sometimes he breathes, sometimes he doesn't, he does not know if he actually needed it or not, he tried not to care. Each time waking up he's in different places, an abandoned cottage, the high mountains of Tibet, the shadows of the Grand Canyon, a village by _la Loire_, a graveyard with his father's name on a tomb like an iconic nightmare, and finally, the depths of Albania Forest where he'd spent a year wandering in search of the Diadem, the only place on earth where he'd found refuge from the overwhelming resentment gnawing at his insides at every waking second.

Time mattered little to him, only the torment and suffocating hatred remained real in his limbo, burning in his metaphorical veins, a life force sustaining him, a last dyke keeping the madness at bay.

It may have been weeks that passed, maybe even years, but then again, maybe decades have passed and he would not have known. At times he would see himself standing in front of the statue of Salazar Slytherin, towering with all his glory and pride intact. He reaches out, and the image explodes in a whirlwind of color and sound and laughter, like a flimsy bubble breaking down upon touch.

Every time he wakes up, he wakes up to rampage and rage and bitterness, with only the silent forest all around him judging him wordlessly.

Maybe he'd gone insane, maybe he had not. He would not have known.

-**S**-

He heard the woods murmur among themselves: _there is a wraith among us_.

He laughs, the sound sending a cloud of black wings and sharp claws fluttering out of the canopy, shooting into air frightened and anguished, spiraling in the sky ominously. He stares at them for a moment, and that's the last time he'd dreamed in this living hell, the last time he'd looked back to the heart he once had held before his nirvana.


End file.
